Sprinting; the Tale of a Track Work-Out

Saturday morning dawned brightly.  It was decided that due to the two brief snowstorms and the questionable conditions of the trails, we would do a track workout. Clare and Cherry came up with a brief outline for the track, and emailed it to everyone prior to the morning run so we would be prepared.

 

Saturday morning dawned brightly.  It was decided that due to the two brief snowstorms and the questionable conditions of the trails, we would do a track workout. Clare and Cherry came up with a brief outline for the track, and emailed it to everyone prior to the morning run so we would be prepared.

        The workout called for a brief warm-up around the neighborhood, then four eight hundreds with a four hundred rest lap in between, and two twelve hundreds with a rest lap in between.  It sounded pretty innocuous but I knew that as the laps went by I would get slower and slower.  I’d have to try to find a pace I could maintain.

        Paula, Susan, and Cherry led the group, while Karley, Missy, Zina and I followed.  I didn’t get my timer started at the right point; it was still timing the warm-up.  I’d have to catch it after the first eight hundred and try to get the next three splits.

        We were going to try to do the eight hundreds in about three minutes and thirty seconds, which would translate into a seven minute mile.  That’s a decent clip for our group; all of us can do a seven minute mile for a given section, but wouldn’t race a 10K or half-marathon at that speed.  I mistakenly did a 4K race last year and about killed myself by coming in at seventeen minutes.  That’s approximately six minutes and thirty seconds per mile, a lot faster than usual for me.  I hadn’t been training for that pace and knew after the first mile that I was totally screwed.  I ended up picking a woman in front of me and chasing her for the last mile and a half. If I had been wearing a heart-rate monitor I’m sure it would have told me that I was at one hundred percent capacity and was about to blow a gasket.

        Thus, here I am at the track, ready to work on speed and strength.  It’s early March and I don’t have a race scheduled until late spring, but it’s always a good idea to pop some speed and strength training into the mix.

        My first eight hundred feels good.  I come in right on target, and slow just a hair for a four hundred recovery.  I don’t slow enough though, and I catch Cherry, Paula and Susan around the bend.  I forgot that the rest lap is supposed to be about half of the exertion I just did, not eighty five percent of it.  We hit the starting line and miracle of miracles, I remember to hit my timer.  I run with them for the second eight hundred and hear Paula report her 3:17 time for that loop.  She’s incredibly consistent in her running.  When she raced she could shoot for a time and hit it within a few seconds on either side of her finish time.  Because I don’t have that sense of pace yet I chase other people, to keep my head from focusing on my burning thighs.

        We do a quick four hundred recovery and start again.  I’m still feeling strong, though can sense a slight tightening in my right hip.  This hip has bothered me for the past fifteen years, ever since I was hiking through the muck in a Costa Rican rainforest.  It wasn’t until we were seated on the bus and rolling down the road that I realized something was wrong. I looked down at my legs and saw that my right knee was not on the same plane as my left knee; it was about two inches shorter even though my butt was flush with the back of the seat.  It took about twenty four hours of stretching, moaning, and millions of yoga positions before I popped the hip back to its correct place.  The strain of walking through the muck of the rainforest had pulled the ligament of my hip and shoved the ball of the joint straight into the edge of the socket, leaving no cushioning. The damage to the joint and soft tissue was extensive; years of physical therapy, yoga, strengthening, Rolfing, massage, and exercise have made it strong enough to run and cycle.  I’ll probably never be able to sit for extended periods of time, though that’s actually a blessing in disguise.  Who wants to sit on their butt for hours at a time?

        As we circle the bend in the track I hear Karley’s voice from across the way.  She’s running with someone, happily chatting away.  She’s famous in our group for all the talking she does while running.  For her, the Saturday Morning Runs are as much about the company as it is about the exercise.  She’s good natured, good spirited, and quick to compliment someone on a strong run or a good showing of strength.

        We come out of the loop and the other ladies ease into the four hundred recovery.  I’m glad that I’ve made it, and clocked a respectable time of 3:17 for the third eight hundred.  I slow down and jog over to my water bottle for a quick drink and snap a few pictures while I’m there.  It dawns on me that I should be doing my recovery lap, as there’s one more eight hundred in the series!  Whoops! I was mentally prepared for three eight hundreds, not four, even though we had discussed this before starting.

        I wait for my trio to come around the corner and pick them up at the starting line.  After only a few steps I fall behind and realize that I’m just going to have to watch their backs for this round.  I don’t have it in me.  My mind has outwitted my body and I don’t have the endurance to push through another eight hundred at the same pace.  My hips are tight and my stomach is rolling slightly, doing the happy-dance it does before the exercise-induced vomit does an instant trajectory through my body.

        Paula, Cherry and Susan take a moment after their final eight hundred to grab a drink of water.  I catch up with them and hear that Paula has clocked a 3:18, 3:17, 3:17, and 3:18, respectively.  Wow.  If there’s a lesson for me here today it’s how to strengthen my body so that I can tell it what to do during a race, regardless of the adrenalin or “race-high” that occurs.

        We take off for a slower twelve hundred.  As I piddle around the track I take a few moments to look around.  Earlier I was concentrating so hard on my speed and pace that I didn’t notice the cloudless sky.  Now I take the view in, and breathe deeply.  The air is soft.  I’m warm and content from the exercise. I know that once we stop moving I’ll be chilly in the fifty degree breeze with my wet sports-bra sticking to me, but right now I’m completely content in the perfection of the moment and totally glad I made it without losing my cookies.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!